


Touch It

by beaubete



Series: Technologic/Touch It [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 14:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15121532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: Things learned are hard to unlearn.  Intrigued by Q's side project, Bond can't help wanting more.





	Touch It

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of the 2018 007 Fest, I give you filthy, irredeemable porn--the sequel to filthy, irredeemable porn I've given you in the past! This fic is the long-awaited (I hope?) sequel to Technologic, that fic about fucking machines. The title is from the song of the same name that samples Technologic (and was then sampled by Daft Punk in their sequel to their own song. Meta.). It was too perfect not to use.
> 
> Much love and many thanks go to the 00Q slack chat for inspiring me to this one. It's all your faults.

They’ve been dancing around each other for months now, between missions and disparate schedules and poor timing and Bond’s trigger-shy avoidance.  It had been one thing to shiver and cry at Q’s feet with the slippery wet of come spent and gelling on his skin, to come hard enough himself that he’d thought perhaps he might die of the pleasure of it, and yet it’s another altogether to entertain the thoughts he’s had since then, thoughts of Q’s hands patient and knowing as he’d carefully guided Bond toward his own destruction.  Thoughts of the perfectly obscene cherry jut of his lower lip as he’d visibly contemplated licking Bond clean. Thoughts of those broad, tidy, square nails scratching gently through his hair as he knelt and tasted the clean skin and mineral taste of Q’s cock.

Q’s given him space, and time, and patience, and still when Bond catches a glimpse of him as he leaves Mallory’s office he feels his knees turn to water beneath him, feels his spine shoot through with sparks.  Q’s glance is coy, eyes lit with knowledge as Bond slides his palm across the top of Moneypenny’s desk and tries to pretend it was anything more than a grab for stability. He’s wicked teeth flashing as he bites the soft curl of his lip; he’s laughing, silently and secretly, in a way that feels to Bond less teasing and more  _ teasing _ , something sexual inherent in the way the curls he’s let go long embrace the nape of his neck and cup the knob of his jaw.  His lashes are coal, his eyes flame.

Bond finds he can barely concentrate on his meeting—something about teaching an upcoming class of junior agents—and he’s agreeing, obediently nodding, polite and quiet and subordinate in a way that makes Mallory pause, suspicious.  Bond’s got no idea what he’s agreed to; he could have just signed up for a mission in the Arctic, anything that lets him leave to cope with the erection Q’s given him with nothing more than half a smile. It would be humiliating if he weren’t preoccupied with the need to get out of M’s office and back to his own, where he can stick his hand in his pants and resolve the matter.  He cuts Mallory off with a curt, “—of course, yes. Of course. Why don’t you email me the details and I’ll review it all promptly and get back to you with plans?” He skips back to his office and by the time he’s muzzily wiping the chlorine smell from his fingers there’s an email waiting for him: yes, he’s agreed to teach. Damn.

It honestly isn’t as painful as he expects; by the time a trainee has reached the point that they’re consulting with double-ohs, they have some modicum of experience, naturally, and a healthy awe for someone who’s spent the last twelve years active and in the field.  He’s able to guide them through exercises and drills, how to stanch bleeding in the field and talk on a hidden communication device without touching it. He takes them to the training room and lands a few punches, receives a few more, and he’s wiping the blood from a split in his lip when he’s winded, the air sucked from his lungs in one sweep of the eye: Q is here, watching from the door.

“I apologise for the interruption, Double-oh Seven,” Q says, and it’s clear it’s as much for the class as for him, though it sounds sincere enough.  “I haven’t had much time to open the labs, but as we seem to be between international incidents at the moment, I’d like to borrow your class for a few hours for tour and target practise.”

He follows, of course, watches from a distance as Q shows off his labs and offices, walks the agents through the briefest of discussions on digital spycraft—“If you need to do it, you’ll have one of us in your ear to tell you how, and that’s all you really need to remember about it” Q says, and heads swivel in Bond’s direction for confirmation.  He shrugs, and Q’s smile at that is wry—before the moment they’ve all of them been waiting for: the range. There’s a rack of guns, looking as school-issued as a rack of guns could, and Q hands out ear protection to a one. Bond finds himself waiting for the brush of those sensible fingers against his own like a mooning schoolgirl; that wry smile is back, nearer to him than the artificial space Q puts between them, hips angled away as though he can’t wait to walk from him.  Bond hums to himself and no one hears it.

Some of the kids are decent, passable in a trainable way, and others he knows will choke when forced to kill.  Still more are mediocre, already as skilled as they’ll ever get, and he’s still jotting his notes when Q releases them for the day.  Again, their heads swivel to Bond-playing-school-marm, and Q’s laughter at that is silent. They file out and Q begins to pull and clean the guns.  Notes finished, Bond joins him; he doesn’t help—he doesn’t want an excuse to flee.

“Mixed messages, you,” Q murmurs finally.

“Oh?”  False innocence—Bond knows precisely what he means and licks into the corner of his lip, remembering the broad set of Q’s shoulders, the wide spread of his stance as he’d aimed and shot.  

“I’d like it if we fucked again.”  Bond swallows, the click audible in the silence of the room.  “I won’t beg for it, though.”

“Did we fuck?” Bond asks.  It’s smarmier than he’s meant, but Q doesn’t flinch, just pins him to the wall with a single cool look.

“You had my cock up your arse.  Rubber or not. In your mouth, as well, and I’m fairly certain that one was the real deal.”

It’s.  The crispness is somehow refreshing, the chill of Q’s mild displeasure familiar footing.  From the quirk of Q’s lips, he recognises it, too. “Well,” Bond murmurs, and to his horror, the skin across the tops of his ears feels hot.  “I’d.” He’s never asked, not even as a teenaged virgin; Q’s mouth is straight and lush, not even a twitch of the teasing humour Bond sees dancing in his eyes.  He’s going to make Bond say it, and if he’s going to make Bond say it, he’s going to bloody well spit it out like an adult, match Q clear thought for word. “I would.  Like to fuck you again.”

Whatever ice is left in Q’s demeanor melts at this and he sighs, softer and languid and sex-eyed.  “Come to mine, then.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

He doesn’t twiddle like a schoolkid in the cab ride over, though it’s a very near thing.  The whole office will know that they’re fucking by tomorrow morning; wolf whistles had chased him out as they’d passed his agents in the hall, they too familiar with Bond now to fear him and too stupid to recognise that Q was the real threat—Bond had stopped him turning with a proprietary palm in the small of the back, where Q’s shirt was thin and body-warm and just the barest touch damp with sweat.  It doesn’t trouble him, anyway, that anyone would know, or think they know, what he does with the Quartermaster after hours. What the Quartermaster does with—to—him. Anticipation zings metallic at the back of his throat.

After building it up in his mind, the moment Q’s door swings open is almost anticlimactic.  His home is perfectly lovely, and Bond had known it was normal here on the first two floors.  Q makes a show of unbuckling his boots, of placing them to the side carefully, and Bond follows suit.  Stocking footed, Q leads him in, ignoring the stairs at the front door to pass down the corridor to the kitchen.  Small, homey—Q opens the refrigerator and hands Bond a beer, and Bond watches him loop his fingers through his tie and pull it off before he catches on: they’re playing Follow The Leader.  Bond drapes his own tie neatly across the back of the kitchen chair beside Q’s and Q’s eye is steaming, sharp with promise. He trails his fingertips through Bond’s own but doesn’t coax, merely guides Bond up the stairs—drops his jumper on the knob of the bannister and waits for Bond to fold his jacket neatly over the rail—to the first floor.  

The quirl of Q’s mouth is playful as he drags Bond in.  It isn’t a kiss, nothing so gentle or sweet, but something just as affectionate, just as tender.  Their noses brush as Q takes down the first several buttons of Bond’s shirt, spreads the lapel with his fingertips, a secret caught in the fold of his lips and the tip of his tongue on the dip beneath his nose.  His lashes flick, eyes dart to check with Bond, and when Bond doesn’t deny him, he bites, telegraphing the move slowly until just before it hurts, white marks that flush where Q’s teeth were when he pulls away. Leaning back, Q tips his head.

The skin beneath Bond’s mouth is finely textured satin, soft and thin and faintly sheened with sweat.  He presses at it with his lips first, and when Q moves beneath him he chuckles, the little puffs from his nose rebounding against Q as he squirms.  Q arches and jerks like he’s shot, caught with his earlobe between Bond’s teeth as sure as a deer caught by a leopard. There’s a narrow trembling in his frame, thin sounds escaping; Bond catches the end of his nose behind the earlobe to press with lips again along the column of Q’s throat.  Q doesn’t complain this time.

He hasn’t undone Q’s shirt, their game lost in the salt of skin, but Q’s fingers are steady on the buttons and it drops behind him.  Q kicks it at one of the doors and Bond leads, only for Q to capture him still with his fingertips against a wrist.

“Not the bedroom, then?”

And here, Q pauses.  Not shy—not unsure, not uncertain—but undecided.  Then: “I’d like to play with you again. I’ve had this fantasy, ever since—it’s haunted me.  

“I want to tie you up.”  Q says it as though he doesn’t know what Bond does for a living, as though he doesn’t know how bondage usually goes for Bond.  As though he’s thought the idea for the first and the second and the sixteenth time with his hands in his pants and his mind in the gutter, and even though Bond’s first instinct is to say no, his second is to say yes, and his third is to imagine Q stripping his cock to the thought.

They’ll do it careful.  Everything with release catches—playing on his own, Q couldn’t have risked being unable to free himself—everything loose enough and padded and carefully watched; he won’t even get a friction burn, much less chafing.  No blindfolds. 

There’s a bed in the corner of the playroom, and as Q strips it down to lay it with fresh sheets, Bond watches the triangle of his back work.  He’s more muscular than impressions belie, shoulders broad and steady and waist narrow, snug thing. There’s wire tension there in the tendons that flex and pull as Q hauls the bed from the wall, and it isn’t until he sees Q start at what must be open appreciation on his face that it occurs to Bond that he could have helped and instead spent the time simmering with lust.  The look on Q’s face, likely meant to be sarcastic or biting, goes hot and liquid, and he turns on the bed, leans back until he’s bowed and resting on his shoulders, opens his trousers and lifts his pants over the rise of his cock until he’s bare, exposed to Bond’s eye. He shoves the fabric down until it lands on the floor and meets Bond’s gaze through his lashes.

It’s the first time Bond’s seen him completely naked, at least outside of his imagination, and he can feel the electric trill of adrenaline already fuzzing the edges of his memory.  As much as he’s ached for this, he knows it’ll be a shimmering blur in his memory; he can’t bring himself to regret that, not if it means not having it now. He reaches down to undo his belt and instead finds his cock, palming himself roughly through his trousers as Q watches.

It’s a struggle to draw his hands away; he can’t, not until Q’s slunk from the bed and cupped it with his own, gently lifting away to nuzzle into the musk-linen smell of it as he tugs the belt from its loops, undoes the zip, and guides Bond from the remains of his clothes on staggering legs.  The sheets are fresh and cool, the ghost of body heat trapped against the small of Bond’s back as Q guides him to lie back, gingerly lifting a loop of fabric from the post so that Bond can rest his hand inside. His fingers clench at the soft brush of it; he twists his wrist inside the look so that he can cling, arm raised, as Q offers the matching loop for his other arm and shimmies down the bed to consider feet.  He settles on a bar behind the knees that leaves Bond’s feet untied and able to move but unable to kick, something that careful shifting can dislodge while wilder movements will leave it be. The bar settles in with an audible snap that jolts Bond’s pulse into his throat.

Q’s smile is soft as he traces the tips of his fingers up the bow of Bond’s arm and back down across his chest, leaving Bond charged and shivering in his wake.  At this rate, Q won’t even have time to fetch the toys—Bond will shake apart beneath him without them. An ache is setting up high in his inner thighs and Bond realises he is clenching his muscles; he forces them to relax one by one and Q’s smile grows.  When Q’s fingers brush against Bond’s navel, he twitches, forcing himself to melt back against the bed. He breathes to himself as Q rummages through the toy chest.

It’s.  Well, unimpressive, if he’s honest, but Q shakes his head at Bond’s look.  “This is the first one,” Q tells him, voice fond, “and still my favorite. We’ll start you off simple—no arguing, Mister Bond.  Something simple, and then you can choose more if you want to.”

He isn’t going to argue.  There’s something about the tone—Bond shudders, compliant; it isn’t until he looks up at Q that he realises his lashes are wet, clumped.  Q smoothes the ball of his thumb over the lids, mandatory, gentle darkness to soothe and allow him a moment to compose himself. Bond opens his eyes.

The sensation starts as percussion across his ribs, robust enough to judder and raise his nipples.  Q traces the head of the device, surprisingly small for its power and silent as hummingbird’s wings, though he idly thinks he should have expected no less precision craftsmanship from Q, up and across Bond’s heart, which shivers in time.  Loose, lazy circles, spiralling in ever tighter draws until Bond hisses, sucking in breath through his teeth to replace the one punched out of him by the device’s touch on the peaked nub. “It’s called an oscillator,” Q tells him as he doodles another line that leaves him wary—he gasps, and Q’s cat-in-the-cream grin widens.  “It doesn’t vibrate, you know. Well, it does, a bit, but that’s only because this one’s so very powerful. But the head doesn’t: it  _ rubs _ .”

It does, rubs a singing line down to trim just the edges of Bond’s navel.  Bond’s long since given up any shyness about his erection—he’s been hard since Q first started taking his kit off, there in the kitchen with condensation beading on their beer bottles and Bond’s brow—and his cock bobs now, straining.  Q ignores it, drags the little device instead along the curl of a hip, up the shaking stretch of a thigh, around the strap that’s holding him twitching but docile, and then back up the inner thigh until. One more inch. Another, maybe two, and the fine hairs high in the crease of Bond’s leg that are too baby soft to be pubic or leg hairs have stood on his skin with anticipation.  The toy moves away, but they stay raised, sensitive to the possibility as much as the touch. Q skips it up Bond’s abdomen again, childish cartoon murder of the corpse of Bond’s cock, dead from tease and wanting, across to the other leg and up the inside of the thigh there to the knee and the knotted calf and the toes that splay instinctively as he drags it across the span there, up the ankle and the outer calf and then the hip and then, oh, then, and there, oh, there.

Bond groans, body locked in unexpected bliss.  For a hot moment the toy is too much for him, the power too high, until Q shifts his fingers, directs the uncontrollable, forces it to submit to his will and the dizzying shock of it lifts, lightens, becomes mere fire from immortal lightning, still close enough to singe but not enough to evaporate him on the spot.  

“Too much, yeah?”  Q’s breathless, his own cock gone hot and stiff where it bumps and slides against Bond’s shin.  “Sorry. I’m sorry—” though Bond’s convinced he only half means it “—it’s just. Oh, there’s something about you that makes me want to give you more than you can handle.  Just to—just to watch you fly apart, just to see that reserve, all those shields—just to watch you crumble. You’re so perfect when you’re broken.” 

And it’s hard to complain when Q takes him apart so well, fingers and machine so deft and precise that Bond finds himself there on the ledge before he’d quite known he was climbing.  Q is panting, rubbing sticky slick against his leg and desperate, and. Warnings flash behind eyelids he wasn’t aware had closed and he shouts, already hoarse, spills across the head of the toy that is pressing the tip of his cock to his belly like a finger, firm and unyielding; he whimpers, bucks, and hears Q’s breath catch, high and hungry.  This—he wants to touch him, to make him come, but his fists are locked in the fabric, too tangled with pleasure to unclench as Q throws the toy, still burring gently, across the room. His tongue is hot, soft, too much and much too much across the head of Bond’s cock as he sucks jealous kisses into the skin with the hunger of a starving man. He sucks, yes, locks his lips beneath the ridge of him and  _ pulls  _ until Bond knows that the keening noises that are trapped inside his chest are spilling out.  

Q pulls off with a pop, lips bruised red and the tip of his cock fit to match, still hard and fingers fidgeting as if they mean to try to get Bond to go again.  It isn’t—he can’t, but he hangs there until his mind remembers how to work his limbs again and he can extricate himself. There aren’t any—Q is a tidy little pervert, and he has to leave the bed to find what he’s looking for—what his own cock can’t do for Q now, modern science can do for him.  Q watches his approach with starlit eyes.

He sighs as Bond eases it in, his rubber replacement until he can recoup and press Q into the bed, himself.  In the meantime, he can watch as the dildo goes in, watch it come out, watch Q squirm and curl until he’s wrapped an octopus around Bond’s shoulders, around his hips, body twirled on the edge as Bond stirs him with the toy until he comes slick and wet between their bodies.

In the morning, he’ll fuck him, this pretty boy who’s still thrusting lazily through the pool of his own come on Bond’s hip as he eases him to the bed, traces his tongue down the purpling love bites and the tight brown knots of the nipples to lave the brine from his skin.  Tomorrow he will fuck him, and perhaps the day after he’ll try the new machine quite conspicuous in the corner. Perhaps the day after he’ll address the way Q’s unmade him to his elemental components twice; perhaps he’ll be concerned about that. For now, he kisses him and laughs at the face Q makes.


End file.
